Lament
by SnarkyFanGirl
Summary: Rated for violent imagery. Alone. The word bounced around in his head, reverberating over and over. He’d always been alone, even in a crowded room. Had anyone else in history ever been so isolated as he?


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Lament

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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SUMMARY: Alone. The word bounced around in his head, reverberating over and over. He'd always been alone, even in a crowded room. Had anyone else in history ever been so isolated as he?

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SPOILERS: SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, QA, FB

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Alone. 

The word bounced around in his head, reverberating over and over. He'd always been alone, even in a crowded room. Had anyone else in history ever been so isolated as he? Even as a child, he'd known he was different; had known that none of the other children around him felt the same hollowness that was the sole constant in his life.

His teen years and his days at Hogwarts hadn't changed that about him.

His friends, the ones who had promised to be by his side through thick and thin, had told him that he wasn't alone. Not that he had ever voiced his thoughts or feelings to them; they made their declarations of friendship without prompting from him. Somehow they had detected the emptiness inside, without ever quite knowing what it was.

It stood out like a beacon to anyone who wished to cause him misery. How was it that his enemies seemed to know what lie beneath the surface; knew the words to say to push him over the edge? He owed his enemies a great deal of gratitude. In the moments when he saw nothing but blind rage, at least he felt _something._ Something was better than nothing, better than the black hole inside that threatened to consume him.

Fury was a welcome emotion in those final years leading up to the battle with the Dark Lord. Everyone seemed more subdued and less sparkly at the end of his fifth year, and he understood why. The end was nearing, and they had finally begun to prepare themselves for the battle and inevitable carnage that lay ahead of them. 

News of the impending battle didn't affect him as it did everyone else. He knew what his role would be – what it _had_ to be. He had no choice in the matter; his destiny had been written for him. It had just remained to see if he would survive or not. He remembered vaguely a time when he'd gone to get a book from the library, and had overheard some students actually placing wagers on whether or not he would live through the battle.

He had prayed fervently that he would not.

He had one goal, one mission to take care of – and the rest of his life would be lived out with ease. Granted it hadn't been the easiest task to be assigned, but he was willing to practice every night to be able to perform when the time came. It was what was expected of him, and he would not fail to deliver.

There were so many reasons to do it, after all. No one else wanted to do it and dirty their hands. No one else had quite the cunning and skill he had. It was only now that he realized that no one else had had the bollocks to do it. 

And so it had fallen to him.

The morning of the great battle dawned like any other, with students going about their day and attending classes. He glanced around the Great Hall at breakfast, feeling the change in the air. How was it possible that no one else had felt it but he? Nevertheless, regardless of if the other students could feel it or not, it was there, lingering about, and making the air difficult to breathe.

Halfway through his herbology class, a third year student came running into the greenhouse to tell Professor Sprout that Death Eaters had been spotted on the grounds. Being outside of the actual castle was what put them all in danger, and the stout Professor had valiantly tried to gather the students together and herd them towards her office.

It was a futile effort.

Mere moments later, the glass of the greenhouse ceiling had shattered into a million tiny shards, showering the students. The sunlight shining down on the crystalline fragments had created an eerie display of light; and he remembered thinking that it was wrong this way. The Dark Lord was a creature of the night; a daylight siege was simply unfitting.

He didn't have time to dwell on it, though, as he saw his opening. He was going to do it, and then maybe, just _maybe_, he'd be allowed to live in peace and be normal. If he died, then at least he wouldn't have to face their accusing stares, their probing questions that never ended. When the first cloaked figure entered the greenhouse, Professor Sprout had uttered an animalistic cry and raised her wand.

She was simply too slow.

The figure uttered a spell, and the green light that shot forth from his wand was enough to send her sprawling backwards. More Death Eaters entered the room and scattered the students, toying with them. A _Crucio_ here, an _Imperius_ there, and the bleeding ninnies were screaming and squealing like tortured animals.

One figure alone stood out among the writhing students and the towering cloaked figures. He gravitated towards that figure, drawn to it by more than the task at hand. He'd always been fascinated with him. He was a powerful figure, and a force to be reckoned with, that was certain. He recalled having a moment of doubt, before the creature had turned his piercing eyes to him. 

Blind fury flooded him and gave him the strength he needed to do what was expected of him.

He watched the figure spear another with a broad sword and vaguely wondered where it had come from, before he charged and raised his wand. The green light that shot forth was the same sickening color as his eyes.

He blinks his mercurial eyes hard, trying to remember where he is. Turn to the left, and there's the stone wall, dripping with the moisture of a thousand years. Turn to the right, and there's the stone wall that his bed rested against. Look up, there's the ceiling that he stares at, night after night after night, wondering what his life would be like, if only he hadn't done it.

If only he hadn't killed Harry Potter.


End file.
